


Scar Tissue

by swordliliesandebony



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, F/M, HighSpecs, Oral Sex, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 08:16:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11940057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordliliesandebony/pseuds/swordliliesandebony
Summary: "You trust me, don't you?" Aranea asks the question and Ignis knows immediately it's not really a question at all."With my life."Fill for kinkmeme prompt: Ignis is sensitive around his scars





	Scar Tissue

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for prompt over on ffxv_kinkmeme:  
> The skin around the scar on his eye is really sensitive...in a good way. He would love it if his partner would kiss it or gently trace it with their fingers, but he's afraid to say this because he's already afraid his partner finds the scars unattractive and is hesitant to call any unneeded attention to them. I'm open to just about any ship.  
> Bonus points if Ignis has other scars that are just as sensitive.
> 
> I'm pretty sure I entirely deviated from the point of this prompt to the extent that I'm hesitating even posting it as a fill. :')

"You trust me, don't you?" Aranea asks the question and Ignis knows immediately it's not really a question at all. She's well aware of the trust that exists between them. It goes both ways, he likes to think. He wouldn't dare invite her to the room, particularly not given his state, if he didn't trust her. Likewise, he very deeply doubts that she would be perched so neatly in his lap, presses skin and fabric against an open shirt, if she didn't trust him. He knows, however, why the question comes.

She's lifted away his glasses, set them aside. He suspects they're laid neatly on the bedside table now, from the way she stretched back, from the soft click of glass and metal against cheap wood. He wishes she wouldn't, to some extent. He wishes she would pretend the scars weren't present, pretend he wasn't working at such a disadvantage here. Aranea however, and this a point he learned terribly quickly, isn't one for pretending. Still, her voice is a little bit lighter than usual, soft and spoken close to his ear. It makes a shiver roll down his spine, makes him tense a little bit more. He had drawn away, when she went to set aside the little pseudo-shield, that bit of protection, that bit of  _ camouflage _ against the worst of his injuries. 

He’s healed by now- as healed as he’ll ever be, at any rate- but he's aware of the scars. He's aware of their ragged edges and has an approximate image of it looking as though a fair bit of his face has simply been torn away. He's especially aware of the feeling, when his fingers trace those lines- a harsh sensitivity that isn't entirely unfamiliar. Most of all, he's aware that it simply cannot be a good look for him. He took pride in his appearance once. He still does his best, too. He dresses sharp and works at his hair, cleans up and shaves to the best of his ability. But the scars remain, and there's no avoiding them, no ignoring them. There's certainly no way Aranea is.

"With my life," his voice is a low rumble and she seems appreciative enough. Her body shifts in his lap, settles into further comfort. She's in control here, of course, as she so often is. They have an easy dynamic, something he can only call natural. There are times when Ignis will be the one to initiate, to say the right words in the right tones, to get his hands working upon her body before she has a chance to press him down into the same. Here, however, Aranea has beaten him to the punch, has held the ball firmly in her own court. It's all curiosity in her touches, and maybe it's a little bit of pressing up against the boundaries, finding where exactly they lie. He flinched away when she touched at the glasses, and she hadn't missed that brief, subtle sign. She waits for permission, asks it even. 

"You don't want me to touch?" it might have been a tease, if the words were spoken any other tone or by any other person. He can feel the heat radiating from her fingertips. They rest in his hair, near his temple, and they're poised to move. He doesn't want to push her away, though his instinct is to do just that. There's such a sensitivity there, such an eagerness to be touched, sitting in stark opposition to the rational bits in his brain. He reminds himself of how it must look, how it must feel should her fingers make their way to the wound. He reminds himself that there are better things to do with both of their fingers. He kneads his own into the small of her back, eases her to lean closer still. He even allows his head to tilt, just a hair's width, into her touch.

"I can't imagine you would want to," he says it as plainly as he can, carefully and expertly masks away any emotion, any uncertainty. Ignis is a perfect picture of confidence, after all. He doesn't let that slip, not even now. Especially not now. Not when there's that concern eating at the back of his mind, that thought where Aranea still comes to him out of convenience, maybe out of some strange sense of obligation. Certainly not out of any pointed desire, with how wrecked his face and his body are. His confidence wears thin, she must realize, she's not stupid. But he doesn't let the facade slip, not so much as he can help.

"You really can be an idiot, you know," the words, however unkind they may seem on the surface, don't make him flinch. They're spoken from a place of undeniable affection, and when Aranea's lips brush close, ghosting over the marred flesh, he arches in. It sets his nerves ablaze, makes his grip at her back tighten a few degrees. Whatever uncertainty he's harboring here, the plush of her lips against him there feels good. Feels a little bit better than good. 

"I daresay you make me that way, my dear," he says, and he lifts his free hand to brush over the curve of Aranea's cheek. There are times when they're all business, when this sort of behavior would be fully unacceptable. Nothing personal, of course, and in those moments Ignis would have little desire to break the mood , regardless. This, however, is perhaps a bit less about the carnal, about the straightforward and simple components of their relationship. Affection and vulnerability are acceptable here, perhaps even welcomed. Ignis doesn't realize he's carrying tension, tight across his shoulders and down his back, until some of it releases courtesy the way her lips begin to press.

"You make yourself that way," she counters, between the traces of breath and flesh working over him. It's still a difficult position, in some ways. It's his own hesitation, his uncertainty, building a wall there. But, damned if it doesn't feel good. Damned if he doesn't want her to keep speaking, to keep offering up those touches that are so uncharacteristically gentle, bordering dangerously on outright loving. It makes his back arch into her, makes his heart work a wild rhythm in his chest, makes his skin feel like fire wherever she touches. Ignis needs this, even if he can't tell her as much, even if he can't admit it even to himself.

"Perhaps," he allows an admission, even entertains the thought that she might have a point. Aranea gives no signs of repulsion. Aranea never stopped coming to him after Altissia, after the following jaunt to Gralea- a subject on which she has a frankly disconcerting well of knowledge. And she's scarcely parted from his side in the time since. They train together in the days. He accompanies her- if not on the ground- through rescue jaunts with her men. And at night, they retire to this room, and not once has she hesitated. Not once in her life, Ignis thinks, has she hesitated, "I'm a fair bit broken now, I'm afraid."

"So what, you want me to tell you I don't care about that? I'm disappointed. I thought you would've figured it out by now," he feels her lips turn to a pout somewhere about his forehead. Ignis does feel a flush rise,  a streak of shame swiped warm beneath the gesture. There is logic, and logic is what Ignis is drawn to primarily, and it tells him on every front that Aranea has no sense to turn away from him now. She doesn't draw back, she doesn't flinch. She runs kisses over the wonderfully sensitive skin, against the bridge of his nose, through his brow, and she does it without pause.

Logic isn't the only thing at play here, though, and surely she understands that. Coming back to himself, when he's lost such an intrinsic part, it's not instantaneous and it's not easy. The recoveries he's made have been hard fought and, by Ignis's own approximation, they have been few and overwhelmingly lacking. It's slow progress, and it's a strain on him, an absolute drain. Never mind how delightful it feels to receive that particular attention, how damnably good her lips are on mended skin. Forget the thrilling shivers she's evoking, the hot-and-cold, the swell of interest between them. Good though it may be, it doesn't erase the rest.

"I wouldn't be opposed to hearing it. I," he pauses, considers, and still he leans into her kisses, into the brushes of her nose or the wisps of her hair against him, against those hypersensitive spots that flood him with endorphins, flood him with desire, "this feels good. But I can't help but think, you sell yourself short by remaining here. I can only imagine how it looks-"

"-Stop that. We're stopping that right now, got it?" Aranea interrupts. She pulls back and she cups his chin, lifts, as if she expects him to look at her. It draws his attention in any case and he does, in fact, stop. He goes very still. His hand holds firm against her back while he focuses, focuses on the hitch in her breath and the tension around her spine and the borderline rough way her thumb presses at his lower lip, traces down to his chin, "If you need me to tell you, I'll tell you. You want to know how it looks? It looks like a good, loyal,  _ handsome  _ idiot of a man was dragged through hell for his loyalties and came out the other side,"

"Aranea," her name is a breath between them. Her thumb shifts, presses his lips shut.

"It looks like you survived. Do you ever stop to think that maybe that's the part I care about? A lot of people have died since then, but you haven't," a hand slips, brushes his shirt open further, plants itself against the center of his chest, against the rapid drumming of his heart, "besides. You wear it well. It's not as bad as you think," she lets her thumb slide from his lips, her fingers brush down the line of his throat, and he catches her own lips there instead. It's only a moment, something chaste, something reassuring, before she speaks again, "you look good. And my opinion is the important one here, stop worrying so damn much."

He's breathless for a moment, speechless. He brushes hair behind her ear and he lowers his hand, clasps it over hers, against his chest, against warmth and against more scars- smaller ones, less obtrusive, less shameful. Ones that carry that same sensitivity, that still make him shudder and still make his heart thump harder beneath, without quite so much aesthetic concern. He doesn't speak, he only squeezes her hand there, a silent sort of thanks, something he knows he doesn't need to say, because her lips are moving again, and she's working right over that sensitive skin that had him recoiling before.

"You like it anyway," she says this with all the confidence in the world, with her fingers pressing just a hinted dig at his chest, at his fluttering heart. He does, of course, like it quite a bit. Quite a bit more, with the reassurances, with the slightly terse reminder that Aranea isn't so appalled, isn't turned off by the marred appearance. He always like her lips, working heat against him, but that skin is so sensitive, so hyper-reactive to her touch. It’s something he hadn't explored or counted on. It lights up his entire body and it sends those familiar shivers, pleased pinpricks all throughout.

"Your touch ranks among my favorites," he squeezes her hand when he speaks and he does feel her falter, just for a moment, just for the length of one of those rapidfire heartbeats. Her lips move, they trace the edges of the scar again, and when she's made a sort of circuit, she works lower, so that her lips find his once more, coax them open so her tongue might explore. It’s a straightforward heat and a lingering warmth, wrapped into one, and it’s something Ignis eagerly opens to, eagerly encourages. 

Aranea is a lovely little riddle to him, the sort of person who really makes Ignis think, makes him work toward an understanding of. She presents so straightforward, so unapologetic, in a way that is frankly inspiring. She doesn’t mince words and she doesn’t speak half-truths or riddles, doesn’t filter her opinion for anyone. All that being said, being perfectly true, Ignis can’t so easily predict her, can’t entirely wrap his mind around her. Maybe it’s a lingering effect, something to be said for a person raised at court, raised to speak in everything  _ but  _ straightforward truths. There isn’t a thing in this world that Ignis is completely satisfied to take at face value and that fact about himself, perhaps, turns Aranea into that much more a work of complexity and deep interest.

“I would hope so at this point,” Aranea speaks when their lips part. Parting is, perhaps, a strong term here, because Ignis can still feel the plush moving against his own, all soft warmth masking sharp tone. He smiles at the incongruity, and he can feel a little tension, a twitch of flesh that makes him think she’s fighting the same when she speaks again, “and, not what I meant, mister romance. The skin’s sensitive,” not a question, though it doesn’t need to be. Ignis’s entire body gave way to that fact without saying a word and Aranea doesn’t miss hints, whether they’re subtle as a leaping pulse or straightforward as a blossoming erection pressed into her thigh, “it doesn’t hurt?” 

“Not in the least,” Ignis confirms, quick words before his lips catch hers again. There’s a different bit of warmth, something that flutters beneath his ribs with that little show of concern. He doesn’t think it would stop her, necessarily, even if he said that it was agonizing. Not until the point he might tell her to stop, and with tugging teeth and searching tongue, he’s only making it more clear that telling her to stop is not on tonight’s agenda. It’s far easier than speaking here, to kiss her, to trace his forefingers along her cheek and down her jaw. It’s easy to drag the feather touch over her throat, follow the slope to her her shoulder. There’s a rise of soft cotton here, the line of an undershirt that he suspects, given the tension of the fabric when his fingers follow that line, was once one of his own.

The top stretches tight across the swell of her breasts, clearly enough not designed with such a presence in mind. It makes him smile, something brief and subtle, while he thumbs against the cloth, searches out and works easy circles over the peak of a nipple. His other hand meets her from the bottom, elegant fingers slipping up beneath the top, more soft touches along the curve of her waist. Aranea doesn’t speak to it, but her cheek presses at his own and her breath is hot and quick against his throat. She doesn’t leave him any doubt, even in her relative silence, a point Ignis is grateful as ever for.

It remains this way for a stretch of warm, comfortable moments. Ignis focuses both of his hands downward, a slow and reverent motion of the one leaving her breast, tracing the curve of her body, before it meets at her opposite hip and begins the press of cloth upward. That smile is still on his face, though Aranea leaves her cheek pressed to his and is doubtless missing the quiet warmth there. Little surprises from her, those are what Ignis appreciates so much. The fact that she’s certainly stolen this shirt of his for her own carries some bit of unspoken affection. Perhaps, he can admit, it’s only his own feelings applied to an unthinking, meaningless decision. Ignis is loathe to believe, though, that anything Aranea does is unthinking.

His hands work upward further, the pace still slow, likely maddening. He takes in curves that are familiar, but that have taken on new detail, further captured his attention when this gentle glide of his hands is the only sense of them he can take. He’s absolutely enthralled by it, by her; by the tension of muscles beneath soft flesh, by the hitching intake of breath as his fingers dance across skin, by a brief shudder that rolls through her body when he gives in to slip the top away entirely. He tosses it aside with a sort of abandon that is, admittedly, quite unlike him. A hazard for later, he decides, and it’s not a hard decision to make given the ‘now’ seated so inviting before him.

“Enough,” Aranea speaks, and it comes as nothing short of a surprise to Ignis. His hands, by now, have worked back to her breasts, have massaged her nipples into tight, erect buds. There was a fancy in his mind, to bring his mouth forward, to begin lavishing kisses along those soft swells, but he does not disobey this command. Her body language hasn’t changed, not from what he can ascertain, though she’s lifting just a touch, creating a greater distance between them, even if she remains for the moment in his lap.

“Is something wrong?” 

“No,” her voice carries no edge, but there is a firm quality to it. Ignis doesn’t move, not at once. There are gears grinding in his mind, trying to make sense of the situation, trying to guess her next move. It’s pointless, though, because she’s already moving again. Her fingers follow the line of his jaw, down to his throat and across his collarbone, and then she’s pushing back the oxford still hanging from his shoulders. Ignis, for his part, helps by shrugging out of the sleeves, by tossing this to the side as well, somewhere toward the foot of the bed. His hands shift to the small of her back, a gentle squeeze, a brief encouragement. She allows this, seems even to appreciate it. Her hips are drawing closer to him and he can feel the heat of her pressing flush, encouraging an erection now aching against his jeans. Her hands curl onto his shoulders, a firm but gentle grip, and they remain that way for a moment, all subtle movement and short breaths; a calm, Ignis thinks, before the storm.

The storm is Aranea, so shortly after, pressing him flat to the mattress. It’s a good place to be, something Ignis decides before his skin ever hits the sheets. She’s not frantic, not quite, but she’s picking up the pace. Her hands slip and span across his chest, a bit of pressure to reinforce his place, to set the role he’ll be taking here. They have a fair understanding of each other, he thinks. There were enough stolen evenings before everything went to hell, that they’ve worked out how to please one another and worked out how to communicate their desires in manners both direct and implied. It has continued just so since, inviting Aranea back to his room after a bit of training or vice versa. Their recent forays, admittedly, have bordered on utilitarian in their approach. The shift only makes his position that much more enticing. 

“I wonder,” she says, and she perches close to do it, all curled over his chest, words heated against his throat, “if the rest of your scars are so sensitive,” there’s a beat of still silence, one where Ignis considers speaking. It’s unnecessary, though, as Aranea’s mouth is at work again, chasing down that particular hypothesis. Ignis has a fair number of scars to provide control on her little study here, a natural result of standing guard to a stubborn prince for so many years. None are so brutal as the ones that lay blemish on his face, but she’s left with plenty still to work with. She decides first on a heavy line of flesh just below his right shoulder, a spot where he caught a Magitek hatchet full-on. He remembers distinctly how it hurt like hell, how it required some due diligence in bandaging even with the assistance of potions. Only natural, then, that the mark would remain now, pink going on stark white, shining and taut, but healed nonetheless. 

There is an instinctive bracing before the sensation of hot mouth against flesh registers in his brain. He expects, for a moment, that it will hurt. A foolish thought, he realizes, when her touch was so pleasant on injuries both more severe and more recent. The actual outcome is precisely as she seemed to expect. It’s an instinct switching instead to lift himself up against the wet heat, the sensation deep, shocking from his shoulder and through his chest, down his spine and between his hips. He thinks it’s absurd, such an area far from erogenous, but he’s sighing beneath her only to inhale in sharp gasps. 

“It would appear so,” he’s pleased with himself, really, that he’s managed to keep his voice as steady as it is. He’s pleased with the little huff of breath rolls from her, that silent bit of amusement. And he’s pleased, above any of that, with how it  _ feels  _ as her lips continue to work over him. They linger there, against that scar, for what feels like an eternity. It’s absolutely too long and she knows it. She knows it because she’s shifting, so that she straddles just one leg instead of his lap proper. She’s shifting so that her knee is pressed between his legs, pressure and friction against his clothed erection.  _ Damn  _ her. 

“The only question, then, is how long I torture you for,” this part she  _ does  _ say sharply, and damn her again, it’s only another surge of sensation driven through him. She’s shifting again, in a way that gives Ignis half a mind to grab for her, pull her body back to his, her tongue back to that oddly sensitive place. She’s climbing off entirely and he really does groan, unrestrained, for the cool lack of contact left in her stead. It’s only a brief absence, and it’s one that he finds he can forgive all too easily, with the sensation of shoulders nudging his knees open, the pressure of deft fingers thumbing open the button of his jeans. In this place, she doesn’t waste time, a damned  _ miracle,  _ Ignis thinks, for the simple relief of pressure, the brief tug of friction with pants being worked around his ankles.

“Not too long, I should think,” he counters, follows with another groan courtesy the rake of nails at the inside of his thigh. He pushes, shimmies himself closer to the edge of the bed, all too eager for the implications, the utter certainty of what will follow. Aranea gives him a sharp little laugh though and he thinks, perhaps, the back-and-forth will have cost him in the end. She peels at the elastic of his briefs, but it’s a concentrated motion, tugging down just an inch or two to reveal his left hip. She would, of course. The scar there is older, a fair bit uglier than the one on his shoulder with a fair bit longer to heal. It was a simple bit of clumsy training, the absolute epitome of looking-worse-than-it-is. It worked well, and Ignis can only reflect on this with a certain level of sadness now, to guilt Noctis into better behaviour for a few weeks.

It is all too easy, and Ignis cannot be more thankful for the fact, to forget about any origins or any tangled up emotions, because Aranea’s mouth is closing in there, too. Perhaps there is still a lingering bit of hypersensitivity. More likely, there’s a fair bit of her hair spreading across his pelvis and a fair pit of lips and teeth dragging over his hip, a fair bit close to bare thighs and straining, markedly not-bare erection. Ignis’s fingers tangle into the sheets on either side of him, an utter death grip, a hopeless attempt to keep that attended hip still while she works over it. She’s driving him mad and he doesn’t doubt that she knows it. Ignis thrives on self-control and careful discipline and Aranea thrives on testing it. He can feel it in the shape of her mouth where it presses, he can all but sense the struggle against a smile.

“Aranea,” he says her name and there is a tone to it that betrays just a hint of frustration. Frustration, perhaps, is not quite the sense, but it’s something close. His body is on fire, overly eager, close to writhing with need. Aranea isn’t a tease in the traditional sense, but she likes to play her games, she likes to reduce before she rewards. He appreciates it in the end, but they’re only at the start and in these moments it’s as maddening as it is arousing.

“So  _ impatient, _ ” Aranea’s tone is nothing short of scolding, and maybe Ignis feels just a brief jolt of regret, because she lifts her mouth away again, leaves him once more devoid of that pleasant heat, “fine, fine. I can have my fun later, I suppose,” there is a sense of resignation, but it’s all put on, just barely masking a fair measure of amusement. They know each other too well to play one another for fools, and Ignis knows just as well that it’s not Aranea’s intention to do so in any case. They could, and particularly  _ she  _ could, keep up this back and forth for some time yet, playing at each other and turning them both eventually to madness. There have been nights, will likely still be nights, for doing just that. He’s utterly delighted that this isn’t one of them, flat-out thrilled when she works down his dampened briefs.

“I’m afraid you wear me thin,” he’s teasing her now, just a touch. A little bit of flattery that’s sure to be making her roll her eyes, “simply impossible to resist, my dear,” he adds. There is a breathless quality to his voice, something that comes from the heat of her breath against newly bared flesh and her nails raking at the trembling insides of his thighs again. She knows  _ far  _ too well what she’s doing.

“You do realize the compliments are supposed to come  _ before  _ the pants go,” Aranea makes the point with a brief chuckle and she follows it with a nip at the inside of his thigh, not too rough, just a little jolt, just a perfect rush of blood. Ignis smirks at the joke, a fact completely lost in the sense that his head is pressed as flat as his back to the mattress, entirely obscuring it all from Aranea. There’s probably, he reflects, some sort of irony to be made of that situation. He lets it sit unexamined.

“And have you question my sincerity? I’m comfortable in my methods,” Ignis says, and again, he’s just a touch proud of his retorts. He enjoys the back and forth, appreciates the easy banter. Perhaps not so much as he enjoys and appreciates what comes after, but he thinks it works as a fair enhancement. They work well together, on levels and layers and all that nonsense. It’s an easy give and take between them, never too serious for too long. It’s welcome, with everything else in the world being so much the opposite as of late.

“Too damn comfortable,” Aranea is agreeing, in the most disagreeable fashion she can muster. Ignis finds a bubble of laughter rising in his chest, but even that is cut off, “quiet, now. Running your mouth a lot for someone who can’t make it through a bit of foreplay,” all gentle ribbing again, absolutely inviting a response. Challenging him to respond, in fact, because no sooner has she spoken than she is dragging her tongue up the sensitive underside of his cock. That, naturally, is one way to assure his silence.

Aranea is good at what she does, regardless of what it is she happens to be doing, and there are no exceptions to be found here. Her tongue works the length of his shaft, hot and wet, and her hand follows, spreading the wet, twisting, turning his mind to a liquid mess. It’s all too easy for Ignis to forget anything else in these moments. His entire body is lit with pleasure, with the incessant wet heat wrapping around him, with the swap from one hand to the working below her lips, squeezing, rolling, drawing sounds from his throat that are entirely, embarrassingly undignified. 

Her newly freed hand drags up his thigh, plants firm on his hip, holding her balance, shooting sparks all the way up his body. There is no more question about the lingering sensitivity to the spot. She reads him like a book in that sense, the way her saliva-slicked thumb kneads over the sharp, marked jut of bone. She works him in time there, her grip squeezing and relaxing, rolling over his hip while her tongue swirls a twin rhythm over the head of his cock. There is no real, coherent thought in Ignis’s mind, beyond the pleasure of it all. There is no memory of the uncertainty, the hesitation and shame of her fingers running across unseeing eyes. There is only himself, trembling and gasping in pleasure and there is only Aranea, offering it up generous and bordering on relentless.

Ignis likes to think he’s a man of fair stamina, capable of putting on a properly satisfying, occasionally prolonged performance. That is, and it became abundantly clear from nearly the first rush of heat, not the case here. It’s no surprise, realistically, that the tension is building so quickly, that his breath is turning to gasps and his heart is thrumming all frantic and unsteady within minutes. Aranea is not one to spend a great deal of time on her knees. That fact alone brings a surge of silent appreciation, a further edge of heavy, heady arousal. And nearly so quickly, far too quickly, he’s spiraling into a particularly pleasant oblivion.

There’s something to be said for a sharpening of senses, even if it comes in a most inopportune way. There’s the rapid wet heat of release, the sharp spasm of muscle, the soft warmth of Aranea, guiding him all the way through, working her mouth on him until he’s damn near ready to force her away, spent and overstimulated, trying desperate for air. It’s all in the subtleties here, the notable blanks being filled in new ways. It’s the sound of his heart, pounding crescendo in his ears, refusing to subside and it’s the sound of creaking springs when he feels Aranea lift. The feelings, too, beyond the orgasmic haze, of a body pressed warm and eager into his, a wet heat where she straddles his stomach, another where her lips meet his. And the taste, not entirely a pleasant one but certainly an intriguing one, of himself on her lips and on her tongue. It’s all a lot of things that Ignis finds himself entirely grateful for.

“Aranea,” her name feels good on his lips, natural, squeezed in the impossibly slight space between the two of them, “that was,” his voice trails. His head is swimming with pleasure, with just a hint of exhaustion, with all of those remaining senses and sensations. And, in the end, it doesn’t matter one bit, because she cuts him off before he can form the rest of the thought.

“Oh, come on. Don’t start with that, as if we’re not just getting started.”

Really. _Damn_ her. 


End file.
